Tired mind is easy prey For hideous imagination’s play.
Is there no place where I might rest? No harbour for my soul? Must I go roaming on unblest, Without a chart or goal?
Go searching for a place where peace May soothe away my pain; Some lonely nook where ills may cease, And nothing be all gain?
And yet, with all the pain and tears, That lonely sorrows bring; Though life’s besetting woes are fears, To hope’s frail staff I cling.
My fears are hopes in joy’s disguise, My hopes are fears in flight, Which seek an earthly paradise, Beyond the range of sight.
So nestle, pain, you constant friend, Close to my longing heart-- What matter how the story end-- We two shall never part.
And yet there is a place I know, Where all griefs are forgot-- A breast to which I ever go, E’en knowing it is not.
I go to that dear place to lose All fears, all woes, all pains; It is the paradise I choose, Where life eternal reigns!
Where life is drawn anew from springs, Which flow with every bliss, And to me joy celestial brings New hope with every kiss!
Alas, the breast of love is wide, Too precious for one life, And others cannot be denied-- For what is love but strife?
So, ever seeking, trudge and roam, Through hours of chill and gloom, And make the silent night your home, Where there is always room.
Roam on, until a morn shall rise, When you will wake from rest, And know you have found paradise, At last, upon her breast.
Grief is a drenching blast that purges love Of all its dross and scum, and leaves it sweet And holy in its excellence complete. Love without grief no test of strength will prove. The bitterness and pain, dread loneliness, The ache of yearning, then the galling thought-- Love’s deep passions in shattering gusts are caught, And scattered wide apart when deep distress Comes raging through the soul’s wide-open door; Shaking the citadel of hope--the walls Where all the dearest joys take refuge in-- Searching the battered frame to find its core, With that convulsive fury which appalls The strongest heart that deepest Love would win.
The grey day dawns and sleep is gone, The laggard hours are here to count-- Like yesterday’s the sun shone on-- A dreary stream from time’s old fount.
Go, day, as fast as my heart beats, Pass, minutes, with the speed of thought-- Fly, as my soul, when it entreats Swift passage where its love is sought.